


Trigger Discipline

by asuralucier



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Edging, Grenades, Gun Kink, Gun Safety Lol, M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-08-14 16:16:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20195095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/pseuds/asuralucier
Summary: Marcus’s sense of discipline is rock solid, thank you – except when it comes to John.





	Trigger Discipline

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NeverwinterThistle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeverwinterThistle/gifts).

> Love, love
> 
> We pack demolition  
We can't pack emotion  
Dynamite, we just might  
So blow us a kiss, blow us a kiss  
Blow us a kiss, and we'll blow you to pieces
> 
> \- "Killing Strangers", Marilyn Manson

It’s about ninety degrees outside, slightly unusual for Tangier during the summer. The temperature is usually more mild than this, the heady humidity in the air no match for the coolness of the nearby sea. Marcus has always liked Tangier, but this is the first time he’s stepped into the city on a job. 

Or maybe it feels hot because that’s the heat of the job – something that more or less comes naturally to an old hand. The excitement of it tangible in the air and also beaded on Marcus’s skin like sweat; it’s easy to get worked up, get lost in the intensity of the moment. There are those who say that snipers have to make their own fun. What’s fun about looking at a minuscule dot through a scope, knowing that the moment he pulled the trigger that’d be the end of it? 

No mess, no fuss. Marcus has always liked his jobs neat, anyway. 

When John pushes into him, languid, slow, like the heat almost stifling the room, Marcus groans low in his throat, but his hands don’t stutter. He’s done this a million times, though caution is always thick in his blood. 

Then John does it again, with his hands firm on Marcus’s hips, but the accompanying thrust this time around is shallower, even lazy and Marcus fights the urge to whine for more. He doesn’t whine. 

“What?” 

Marcus sucks in a deep breath. He has to remind himself that his hands aren’t empty. And it’s not as if the grenade he’s holding in his hand to affix to the bottom of his prized M79 is going to blow at any minute. The M79 hardly gets to come out to play nowadays, but the contract had come with enticing stipulations. Marcus can’t pass up the opportunity to let an old girl out to breathe. 

“I didn’t say anything.” 

“Sounded a lot like ‘please,’” says John. He drops his chin on Marcus’s shoulder and the man’s breath smells of the beer they’d had together at lunch. John arches in, just a precious inch, and it takes, again, all of Marcus’s fucking resolve, to not grind back against him like some horny pubescent punk just discovering somebody else’s dick.

"Keep on dreaming."

Marcus can feel John taking in the tableau set on the table before them. He’s even got to admit, It’s something to behold, and it’s not like Marcus isn’t proud of it, his baby. 

“Don't need to. I feel you just fine. Single shot though,” John murmurs, putting his lips against Marcus’s pulse and Marcus is thinking, thinking that he really shouldn’t be holding a grenade. But then he thinks, for the sake of resolve and discipline, that it’s not like the grenade is live. “You sure that’s all it’s gonna take?” 

Normally, Marcus likes this game. The sex is good and even fantastic. But the fact that John Wick seems to have very little regard for firearms despite availing himself to them on a daily basis regularly sends Marcus into a crisis. He’s not sure if this – is helping. 

Marcus shrugs. “If I don’t miss, I only need one, don’t I? I trust myself.” He hasn’t missed in a very long time. Fuck John for thinking otherwise. 

John says, “And do you trust me, Marcus?” 

“What the hell do you think?” Marcus snarls (it’s better than a whine at any rate), and he’s happy enough to be distracted when John tilts in and kisses him, dirty and knowing, knowing especially that Marcus wouldn’t be in this precise position if he didn’t want to be. 

“But you still won’t let me lick your gun,” John says against Marcus’s teeth and, and Marcus is sorely, sorely tempted. It doesn’t make it any less of a bad idea; but it also doesn’t mean he can’t think about it the next time he wants to jerk off. John's mouth wrapped around the shined muzzle of the gun. 

(Yeah, that makes him twitch, so long as it remains the purview of one's imagination.)

Marcus looks down meaningfully at himself. “Unless that’s a euphemism. I’m always packing a pretty big gun, John.” 

John snorts, “It’s not like it’s going to blow my head off or anything.” 

“I’ve told you.” Marcus finds himself wishing that he has a bit more leverage, but when he shifts into John, it almost seems to be enough. John presses his forehead into Marcus’s shoulder and lets out a lovely moan, arching to meet him. 

“It’s about good practice, and respect. And discipline.” 

John’s right hand leaves Marcus’s hip to grip tightly around his cock. Hard, disciplined, and then suddenly only one of those things. Now John ruts into him, the languidness of the heat no longer straining at his muscles or holding him back. Each thrust is pointed and sharp like a bullet and the violent wave of pleasure that rips through Marcus’s body is more potent than any wound that he's ever sustained. 

“I respect you,” John’s movements are no longer following rhyme or rhythm and Marcus goes with it, feeling himself clench around each telling twitch of John’s erection. “I fucking respect you so fucking much.” 

“Oh, fuck,” Marcus says and spills all over John’s hand and fuck’s sake, he’s got come on the stock of his rifle. 

He feels John shake against him, and then go still. But the man doesn’t move away from him and maybe Marcus doesn’t want him to. Not yet. 

“So like I was saying,” John’s mouth pulls into a contented little smile, and lingers near Marcus’s racing heartbeat. “You snipers should try to have more fun.” 

“Fuck you,” Marcus shoots back. 

John looks at him, dark eyes still clouded over with cheerful lust. “Maybe give it a couple of hours. Don’t you have work to do?”


End file.
